large cup of coffee for the chief resident.
The O-man smiled. “Ah, vitamin C,” he said, inhaling the steam rising from the top of the cup. He looked at Jeff Parrish, the fourth-year resident. “Heard you did a liver last night.”
Jeff beamed.
“You dog. I baby-sit the largest trauma service in Massachusetts, night after night, and what reward do I get? I’ll tell you. Forty-four blunt traumacases, and only two major abdominal operations in a whole month. You’ve been here two nights, and you get a liver resection.” He huffed. “This stinks.”
“It was pretty awesome. We auto-transfused twenty units.” He held up his thumb and index finger nearly touching at the tips. “We came this close to cracking the chest.”
Dan Overby raised his eyebrows. “Was this case a RANDO?”
“Yep,” Jeff said. “My first liver resection.”
Sally wrinkled her nose. “Rando?”
Parrish smiled. “Trauma-ese for Resident Ain’t Never Done One.”
“In terms of patient mortality, it’s one up from a RANSO,” Basil Roberts, the second-year resident, explained. “Resident Ain’t Never Seen One.”
“But the highest mortality is from the riskiest patient group of all,” Overby added with a ghoulish laugh. “The dreaded ASANSO. Attending Surgeon Ain’t Never Seen One.”
The students laughed.
Beatrice smiled and sorted her patient data cards.
Howard Button seemed to be writing the initials down.
Dr. Overby held up a patient census. “So he lived?”
“She.” Jeff pointed to a name on the census. “ICU bed four.”
The chief resident smiled and muttered, “A RANDO, and she still pulled through. That’s what it’s all about, folks.”
“Come on,” Jeff added. “We’ve got rounds to make.”
“Not so fast,” Overby responded, gesturing for his team to move closer. “First, class, we need to review.” His tone was condescending and overdone. “Shall we all recite Overby’s rules for survival?” He held up his index finger. “Rule number one,” he prompted.
Basil lifted a pack of crackers from his white coat pocket. “Eat when you can.”
Overby lifted a second finger.
Claire joined with the group in a jumbled unison, “Everyone teaches a tern.”
The chief resident held up three fingers.
“If you don’t know, ask.”
Overby grinned. “And four?”
Claire felt the color rising in her cheeks. She waited for the response. No one volunteered. Rick laughed. Sally shuffled her notes for rounds.
Dan made a clicking noise with his cheek. “Come now, class. You remember.” His eyes rested on Claire. “Keep the fleas …,” he prompted, his grin widening.
“Away from my patients!” The group’s response was enthusiastic, but hardly in unison, as they stumbled over the exact wording.
Claire tried to focus on her patient cards. She forced a chuckle. “Ha, ha,” she mumbled. “Ha, ha.” I can be a good sport, guys, but excuse me if I don’t laugh all day.
Claire forged her way through the day’s work with renewed determination. She was a tern. She was there to learn. She would accept criticism and use it to get better. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
And, as she worked, she mulled over her own situation as a lonely intern in a powerful surgery program. The way to survive, she convinced herself, was to become a team player. Support the residents above her, teach the students below, and link arms with the interns around her. She wouldn’t be the one to back-stab the other interns. If she couldn’t be a compassionate friend to the other terns, the year was destined for pure torture. Isolate yourself and die. Forge friendships with the other interns, and you’ll have a chance.
She’d decided yesterday, during her soul-searching at Foster Park, to reach out to Bea Hayes. It was a no-brainer. The only two women in the intern group should be friends. Claire would lay aside her first impressions and make an honest attempt to see things through Bea’s eyes. She
The O-man smiled. “Ah, vitamin C,” he said, inhaling the steam rising from the top of the cup. He looked at Jeff Parrish, the fourth-year resident. “Heard you did a liver last night.”
Jeff beamed.
“You dog. I baby-sit the largest trauma service in Massachusetts, night after night, and what reward do I get? I’ll tell you. Forty-four blunt traumacases, and only two major abdominal operations in a whole month. You’ve been here two nights, and you get a liver resection.” He huffed. “This stinks.”
“It was pretty awesome. We auto-transfused twenty units.” He held up his thumb and index finger nearly touching at the tips. “We came this close to cracking the chest.”
Dan Overby raised his eyebrows. “Was this case a RANDO?”
“Yep,” Jeff said. “My first liver resection.”
Sally wrinkled her nose. “Rando?”
Parrish smiled. “Trauma-ese for Resident Ain’t Never Done One.”
“In terms of patient mortality, it’s one up from a RANSO,” Basil Roberts, the second-year resident, explained. “Resident Ain’t Never Seen One.”
“But the highest mortality is from the riskiest patient group of all,” Overby added with a ghoulish laugh. “The dreaded ASANSO. Attending Surgeon Ain’t Never Seen One.”
The students laughed.
Beatrice smiled and sorted her patient data cards.
Howard Button seemed to be writing the initials down.
Dr. Overby held up a patient census. “So he lived?”
“She.” Jeff pointed to a name on the census. “ICU bed four.”
The chief resident smiled and muttered, “A RANDO, and she still pulled through. That’s what it’s all about, folks.”
“Come on,” Jeff added. “We’ve got rounds to make.”
“Not so fast,” Overby responded, gesturing for his team to move closer. “First, class, we need to review.” His tone was condescending and overdone. “Shall we all recite Overby’s rules for survival?” He held up his index finger. “Rule number one,” he prompted.
Basil lifted a pack of crackers from his white coat pocket. “Eat when you can.”
Overby lifted a second finger.
Claire joined with the group in a jumbled unison, “Everyone teaches a tern.”
The chief resident held up three fingers.
“If you don’t know, ask.”
Overby grinned. “And four?”
Claire felt the color rising in her cheeks. She waited for the response. No one volunteered. Rick laughed. Sally shuffled her notes for rounds.
Dan made a clicking noise with his cheek. “Come now, class. You remember.” His eyes rested on Claire. “Keep the fleas …,” he prompted, his grin widening.
“Away from my patients!” The group’s response was enthusiastic, but hardly in unison, as they stumbled over the exact wording.
Claire tried to focus on her patient cards. She forced a chuckle. “Ha, ha,” she mumbled. “Ha, ha.” I can be a good sport, guys, but excuse me if I don’t laugh all day.
Claire forged her way through the day’s work with renewed determination. She was a tern. She was there to learn. She would accept criticism and use it to get better. She wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.
And, as she worked, she mulled over her own situation as a lonely intern in a powerful surgery program. The way to survive, she convinced herself, was to become a team player. Support the residents above her, teach the students below, and link arms with the interns around her. She wouldn’t be the one to back-stab the other interns. If she couldn’t be a compassionate friend to the other terns, the year was destined for pure torture. Isolate yourself and die. Forge friendships with the other interns, and you’ll have a chance.
She’d decided yesterday, during her soul-searching at Foster Park, to reach out to Bea Hayes. It was a no-brainer. The only two women in the intern group should be friends. Claire would lay aside her first impressions and make an honest attempt to see things through Bea’s eyes. She
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